


D - is for Dangerous

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bar Scene, F/M, Flirting, Heavy Make-out, Little Black Dress, Semi-Public Sex, Sex in the Impala, Smut, mutual feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:30:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9405728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: Whether it was what you did to him or what he did to you, no one could say. But, it could be said that the appreciation was mutual, the after-math inconsequential when the pay-off was so good. The chemistry between you two had been brewing for months and denied a reaction. But a little black dress and some alcohol set it off and the results might be dangerous...not that either of you care.





	1. Try To Keep Your Trousers On

You barely hear him over the roar of conversation and loud rock, not to mention the alcohol running rampant in your veins, dimming your senses.

He tilts his gaze, and you follow it, lazy contentment fills you when you realize he’s raking his eyes down your form. Seems like that little black dress was worth something after all. Months of pining after the green-eyed hunter had made you desperate, desperate enough to warrant a wardrobe change.

You’re glad your job keeps you in shape, because he’s presently dragging, lingering on your waist and hips with greedy eyes.

Eyes that clash with yours when he looks up at you, darkened and hazy from the crappy light of the bar and the whiskey he’d been throwing back all night. His lips move again, he’s talking, maybe asking you something, but all you can really do is watch them move in hungry fascination.

He smirks at you, and you grip the edge of the bar for dear life, catch your breath in your chest when he leans close, those sharp, predatory greens locked on you with heady purpose.

His breath hits your ear, hot and steady but deep. “How long are you planning on eye-fucking me?” he rumbles, low and hard, practically growling the expletive.

His hand finds your thigh, palm hot and fingers selfish as they grip and squeeze, and you find your center when he does. You dip your head towards him, temple to temple and purr into his ear, wanton and smooth.

“As long as I’m stuck at this bar,” you reply, breathing in his musk: cheap soap, the smoke of the bar, leather and whiskey, and something that’s distinctly Dean underneath it all. It has you clenching your thighs, and he feels it, feels it strong enough that he punches out a short grunt, the sound throwing kindling on the fire low in your abdomen.

His teeth nip at your earlobe in quick want, a lapse in willpower and he pulls away, keeps his eyes locked as he throws a handful of bills on the bar. He doesn’t ask, just grabs your wrist and tugs you off the stool. You stumble minutely, you don’t really ever wear heels, only for special occasions. Like this.

He glances down at you when he hears your heels click-clack in a misstep, that fire shifting a little with an apology as he slips his hand into yours, fingers lacing and catching tight, anchoring you while he pushes through bodies to get to the door.

You’re glad that Sam left earlier, otherwise, you’d never have the courage to do this. Almost half an hour of flirting, and here you are, behind dragged behind him, watching those broad shoulders dip and roll and shift to get through all of these people.

It’s like a breath of fresh air when you both break through menagerie of drunken patrons, a small clear space by the door, just big enough for the heavy thing to swing open.

He throws it open, glances over his shoulder at you, impatience ramping exponentially at the sight of you following with agreed resolve, the blatant desire that you wear on your lips in the form of a smile. The door’s barely swung shut before he has you in his arms and against the building.

He presses close, his heat rushing into you as he curves himself to slot and nestle in the slopes and corners of your body. You’ve hardly tilted your head back to look at him when his mouth meets yours.

You sigh, relief and victory heavy on your tongue, it tastes like whiskey and mint gum, and feels like sharp teeth that nip and devour. One of his hands finds its way to your hair, almost sorry that he’s going to mess up the sexy curls that you spent an hour on and twists. It catches you off guard and you gasp softly, the noise short-lived as he delves in like a man starved.

You groan and reach, stretch to get your arms around his neck, body slipping and sliding into his own with ease and supplication so evident it has your bones vibrating. He has an arm around your lower back, bending you into him with strength born from primal hunger, and his fingers, all of them, curl and press on whatever they have a hold of.

Your own scratch along his scalp, frantic with heat and need, and he growls into your mouth, slants and pulls you. He moves, barely noticeable, just a drop of his chin, a clenching of his stomach muscles that you can feel through the fabric between you, and then he insists. His hips push into you, thighs pressed to thighs, the denim of his jeans ample friction even through your dress, and you whine.

He breaks away with a snarl, the sound driven straight to your core where it settles with white-hot presence and weight. He drags his mouth along your jaw, noses a few kisses under the bone before he trails his tongue to your ear. Dips behind the shell and sucks a mark just under the lobe, and you tilt with it, sighing and coaxing him with hands that grab and drag anywhere you can reach.

“Mm. Tell me you don’t care if we can’t make it to a room?” he asks, husky and heavy, full of promise and impatience and you arch against him, trying to get as much contact as humanly possible.

His hands trail, outline you with pressure and gluttony, squeeze at the hints of softness that make up your curves. Your head drops back and he straightens to meet your gaze as you work your lips to say one word.

“Car.”


	2. Trousers Optional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, that escalated. Not quickly, he'd argue, but it escalated far better than either of you ever thought.

 

You don’t even make it inside the car, he has you pressed against the driver’s backside door with his hands in your hair and your body trapped within the reach and width of his own. His mouth is on your neck, teeth sharp and vicious as they search out those spots and corners that make you gasp and curl into him, fingers hard when they dig into his back.

The fact that the car is cool and moisture seeps through the fabric of your dress because raindrops cling to its polished surface don’t even register in your mind. The heat that comes from him cancels everything else out, like the fact that people have come and gone from the bar, a few throwing whistles in your direction.

He wedges a thigh between your legs and you waste no time in dipping your hips, dragging forward to get friction, like striking flint to try and start a fire. He has a hand on your waist, grip tight and fingers mean as they guide you.

Your head falls back, and when you bump your head on the roof, a sliver of sense comes back to you despite the pendulum dip and pull he has your hips doing.

“Dean-“ you judder out, voice taut and ragged from the stretch of your throat, and he grunts, somewhere around your collar-bone.

“I do care about whether or not we make in the car,” you finish, voice pitching higher at the end because he hikes his thigh up, precise and sharp, muscle pressing just right on your clit.

His breath rolls and tumbles over your sternum, claws up your neck as he raises his head to grin down at you, wolfish smile stirring embers with a hot poker low in your midriff.

“Not an exhibitionist?” he chuckles, half-joking, though a cursory glance that bounces from your eyes tells you that he’s at least somewhat genuinely curious. He reaches around you, arm circling your waist even as he tugs the door open and his eyes are on you, hot and glowing like glass in a furnace, and you shift in his hold, tipping your chin as you turn your head.

“It’s not exactly high on my list of kinks,” you admit, sliding away, rain on the window hopping to your skin like magnetism, and the cold is a sharp contrast, sharp enough that it’s got you on edge quick. When you turn to duck in the darkness of the cab, you realize it’s not the cold, but the way he’s looking at you, like you’re a 3-course meal and he hasn’t eaten in a week.

His teeth are in his lip, and you think you see blood bead on the swell of his lip before you disappear inside. He’s not far behind, and his entire body blocks out the scope and presence of the light-post on the edge of the parking lot, his silhouette clear around the edges, hugged by slivers and catches of light, shadows clinging to parts just out of reach.

His eyes are gleaming pin-points in the dark, glinting with something that makes your spine tingle. When the door shuts behind him, it’s like the crescendo of a piece of music that launches him at you, the signal that says ‘give it your all’.

At first, he can’t seem to figure which part of you he wants: his hands scrabble along your hips, nails snagging at your dress, mouth kissing and sucking with bruising force around your jaw and dip of your throat, calloused hands twisted and curled into your hair, teeth in your shoulder, then he’s gone, hands somewhere else and his mouth tasting some other sweat-slicked part of you.

All the while, you’re a puddle of woman in his lap, your own hands alternating between fisting the fabric at his shoulders and trying to grip his short hair. Air seems to be a low-priority, because you can’t even think about doing it with everything going on.

The only thing your brain understands is Dean, and he’s everywhere. You know you’ll have bruises from him tomorrow, either from his teeth or his hands and you press closer with the knowledge that there will be imprints of his intentions, like a river will cut through mountains and rock altering landscape to do so.

His scent fills your nostrils. Leather, gunpowder, cheap soap, an undercurrent of smoke, somehow between cigarette and forest-fire, and something that’s just him. The aroma is heady and heavy, addictive and dangerous, and you were hooked the first time you met him 5 months ago on a case, both of you in fed get-ups. You thought the mixture strange for a federal agent until it dawned on you that he wasn’t, and that was really all it took.

You can still taste him on your tongue, a slight bite from the whiskey that had overtaken his string of beers when Sam left. A coolness that rose every time you exhaled, the faint after-taste of spearmint that clings to the backs of your teeth. It’s futile, but you try and chase it, swallow it down because the air you’re forced to breathe just _lacks_ him in every way.

You scramble and hold on to anything you can, his voice is the closest thing you can comprehend, and you restrain your galloping respiratory system to listen.

“5 damn months,” he growls, and you put your hands on his chest because you want to feel too, your bones want to listen. “Can’t tell me I’m not patient. No idea how many times I wanted- _needed_ -to bend you over the kitchen table, couch, the hood of the impala- and fuck you senseless.” He confides, hands on your ass, long fingers pressing and squeezing with strength that has you dripping, any wetter and he’s going to have to change his jeans.

“Can do that later…” you say in a breathy whisper, sultry but no intent to play off restraint and he groans, appreciative. His teeth toy with the V-neck dip of your dress, and you’ve gone too long. Too long that the taste of him has gone stale in your mouth.

Your hands dart to the sides of his face, grip so desperate that his jaw-bone digs into your palms and you relish that too. He hardly needs your direction, but he lets you drag his head up, his pupil-blown greens locked on your red kiss-swollen lips.

This time it’s all teeth and ragged breaths, hard presses and firm slants, tongues that dart and slide. He rolls and dips, stretches and recedes and you chase him, breathing in his exhales with zeal, sucking on and nipping those full lips.

He widens his legs and your thighs part, following his lead, and your breath stutters into his mouth with anticipation. His fingers don’t tease, or stall, they navigate easily, and slide in easier.

You gasp, voice tight and pull away. He pumps lazily, three fingers wide and knuckles deep and watches you, eyes narrowed, not in anger but concentration and restraint. Your hands have found their way back to his shoulders, though now you hold for support, to help stir and rock your hips into his hand.

He grunts, a choked-off groan, and curls his fingers, inhales sharply when you moan pathetically and grind hard enough that he has to flex his arm to keep from bending his wrist. He gets his thumb on your clit, flutters it back and forth, and rolls it like a stud, and you fall apart.

Your vision goes white, a broken whine tumbles from your lips as your core spasms and shakes around his fingers, and he clenches his jaw, watches heatedly as your respiratory system catches up with your cardiac.

You slump, and maybe he knows you need air, but his mouth doesn’t care because it finds its way back to yours, though it’s slower this time around.

You whimper slightly when he strokes your walls, sensitive, and he smiles into the kiss, pleased with himself. His fingers leave you with a wet squelch, and both of you groan with it.

His lips prod yours apart while he lifts his hips and reaches back into his pocket. You linger and savor, though your directive changes when he settles again.

Your hands, shaky from your orgasm trail down and fumble with his belt, eager, and he watches, predatory eyes shining, his dark lashes casting shadows on his bright eyes. When you get the zipper and button out of the way, he lifts his hips again and you wish you could see the muscles of his stomach ripple with it, the tight cords of his thighs strain and bulge, but all you can do is ogle the patch of dark-blond hair that leads down as you tug his jeans and boxers.

He releases a short sigh of relief when his cock springs free, pre-cum dripping from the head. But he hisses a second later when your hand grips him firm and slides down the base, his hips thrust shallowly once and he snaps his jaw shut so fast his teeth clack. You look up, see his nostrils flare, his eyes flutter shut, adam’s apple bob, and you lick your lips.

Your thumb circles the head, spreads his cum and he grunts, opens his eyes and they’re so hungry you could easily mistake it for anger.

“I’m all for foreplay, but not now.” He snaps, and grips a corner of the foil package between his teeth and tears it open, spitting the sliver in his mouth to some unknown corner of the backseat.

He doesn’t argue when you take it from him, but his eyes narrow when you roll the condom on, warning you against teasing. Speaking of teasing…

“I’m surprised you didn’t say anything about me not wearing underwear,” you settle over him, and his eyes dart from your face, down to his cock before he manages a reply.

“Sweetheart, a dress that tight…the whole bar knew you weren’t wearing anything underneath.” He has the audacity to smirk a little, though his expression pinches when you grip and center him. Then you sink down, inch after inch and the breath gets squeezed from him, tight and coiled in the middle of his sternum.

He drops his head on the back rest and punches out a ‘fuck’ that you agree with in the form of a moan, appreciating the reach and girth that’s inside you and pulsing. One of your hands wanders to his jaw, and your thumb strokes against a scruffy jaw in question.

He swallows, lifts his head, and his hands grasp you around the hips. He drags his gaze up, down, and back up until he meets your eyes and nods, “Go.”

And you take instruction well. Both of you gasp at the first roll, sparks shooting up and out over your skin, nerves trembling just like your walls that hug him tight and hot. The hands at your waist tighten, fingertips digging and it urges you to dip lower, lengthen the trough so that the upward rise pulls and snags and breaks along the crest with pressure.

A slight twist here, a drop in angle and your hands snatch at him with a whimper, hips stuttering their push and pull rhythm. He gets a grip on a thigh, slides it forward, and the stretch it creates has both of you choking on air, gazes locked even as he drives his hips up with measured force.

You cry out, clammy hands reaching behind him to hold the backrest of the back seat, nails almost puncturing the leather. He groans out a low ‘yes’, tips his chin to nibble at your throat as his large hands find the backs of your thighs, fingers slipping for purchase among the sweat and arousal smeared there.

And he tugs on you, muscles clenching from calf to neck at the feel of you around him, quivering with heat and moisture, gets you as close as he can, stomachs touching, and releases a sigh like he’s relieved. The bite of his nails in your thighs is all the warning you get before he’s pounding into you without mercy, and you tremble against him, legs half-numb, mind nearly gone.

If you’re making noise, it doesn’t register, all that does is the way that he reaches and drags, hard and heavy, breath bouncing with every thrust, the sound of him growling and grunting, adding to that coil that stretches and heats. White-hot, pulled thin, strained with the way he rolls and snatches on you, catching and grazing a spot that has you clawing at him, keening like an injured animal.

He chuckles, throaty, and broken around the jolt of your bodies, almost overtaken by the slap of skin and the whines that tumble from your mouth, and you realize somewhat detached, he’s teasing.

If he wanted you over the edge you’d have been there already, and the knowledge makes your spine tingle and melt. But you need…

“Dean- Please!” You cry, somewhere miles away but focused, your senses fighting distance and chemicals to settle here, in his hands that bruise and scratch, in his eyes that command and control, in his breath that’s ragged and gravel-rough, like a wolf panting after a hunt.

The clenching of his jaw, and his teeth gritted together tell you that’s he’s close, those eyebrows that knit in concentration, nostrils flare, and the expression is all rebellion and challenge. But he cracks a second later when you whimper, belly deep, and he decides that as long as you go first he doesn’t have a problem.

He shifts, angles up and presses you close, close so he can hear you moan when your clit rubs and grazes on the way down, hear you yelp his name when his cock spears that soft, smooth patch in you. He’s got an arm around your lower back to steady you because you can’t get a strong enough hold on anything, all you do is pant and moan into his ear.

That coil is cracking, flaking under the heat and brutal force of his hips, and you’re close.

Two things drive you over. One of them is his teeth in the junction of your neck and shoulder, so tight that it’s painful, and you know he’s broken skin.

The other is when snarls, growls an order in a rumble that claws, grapples and tears at you so sharp it’s like you can feel it. “Cum for me.”

Maybe you scream, you’re not sure because everything goes sideways and blurry with the force of your orgasm, like you’re swimming in honey. And he watches through slitted eyes as your head drops back, sound lodged in your throat, mouth open in a silent scream.

Heat floods him, and he’s squeezed, your walls seeming to wrap around him like a boa, tightening beyond something comfortable and instead slipping towards something deadly. And it is, because he knows he can’t just have this once, he needs a repeat button, a replay.

He isn’t pushed over, he’s shoved, and he snaps his eyes shut as he cums, a groan punching its way out of him. His hips buck sporadically, chasing the sparks and molten heat that destroyed him.

Breath is all that’s left for a few minutes after, both of you heaving and puffing like you’ve been underwater, hands absently trailing and kneading in silent question, gentle concern that’s almost laughable in the face of how brutal it all was.

He breathes deep, exhales slow and pats you on the thigh. On shaky limbs, you lift yourself with help from his hands. You both hiss, bite on air as he leaves you, wetness following his departure.

He ties off the condom, only bothers to pull his boxers up and urges you close. His lips press on yours lazily, soft and warm, and you push back languidly, content.

You break away to press little kisses to his cheek, jaw, temple and he finds his voice. “So, what was the list?” he asks, sounding like he swallowed sand-paper.

You hum, push a nosey kiss behind his ear and look at him. “List?”

He chuckles, reaches up to swipe a thumb along your bottom lip before hooking some hair behind an ear. “Exhibitionism isn’t high on your list of kinks,” he quirks an eyebrow at you, lips turning at the corners. “So, what’s the list?”

You blink, and then smile at him, wipe away a bead of sweat trailing down his face. “Something you’ve gotta earn.”

His expression almost falls flat but he pulls it smug and grins at you, eyes bright. “Plenty of time,” he chuckles. “I’m a patient man.”

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, I find it easier to write reader-inserts, so I might make it a habit now. Anyway, smut in the next chapter, but don't expect it too soon, I'm a perfectionist, so it may be a minute. Thanks for reading this far, though.


End file.
